


Dropped Bags, Missed Connections

by whytho



Series: Delinquent AU [1]
Category: Paranatural (Webcomic)
Genre: :> i love this au thank you soluscrow and the-lunar-warrior for coming up with it, Other, delinquent au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-03
Updated: 2016-04-03
Packaged: 2018-05-31 00:25:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6448066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whytho/pseuds/whytho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Isaac tries to unclench his jaw and wishes he could have stopped this whole thing. If he hadn’t gotten a F on his midterm, maybe he wouldn’t be in this situation. If Spender hadn’t taken pity on him and let him tutor someone to as extra credit, maybe he would be doing something else. If Maxwell Puckett, the town’s newest delinquent, hadn’t decided to match Isaac’s F on his test, maybe Isaac could already be at Izzy’s house, eating ice cream and bemoaning junior year. </p><p>(or: Isaac fails a test, Max fails another one, and Isaac tries to tutor him to get an A.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dropped Bags, Missed Connections

**Author's Note:**

  * For [theLunarWarrior](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theLunarWarrior/gifts).



> okay so this is really short and dumb but i needed to do it 'cause people should love the Delinquent AU. and Janett the Secretary, who I should of included in this. darn. (i love Janett the Secretary almost as much as I love this au.)
> 
> also: i wrote this in one night+ a little bit of the morning so. i'm sorry.

When Max strides into the library, Isaac can feel it. 

His head is ducked down into his reading assignment, eyes focused on the page, but he can pick up the sound of the door scraping open, and the muted giggles coming from the girls hiding behind the shelves. He sighs and lifts his head. “You’re late.”

Max smiled, sharp and dangerous. “I was busy.” Isaac doesn’t want to think about what that entails. Max has slid into a seat, hat covering his eyes, and Isaac can’t help but notice the fresh scabs on his wrists. (Doctopi haven't attached themselves yet, but they're sure to come.) They’re probably from doing something with Johnny; Isaac has seen his group messing with wood and tires behind the 7-11. He sighs again. A ghost floats by. Max picks up a textbook. “So, are we doing this or no?” 

“Look, you need to be cooperative,” Isaac tells him. Max frowns. 

“So I was late. That doesn’t mean I can’t study.” Clenching his jaw, Isaac matches Max’s frown. “Look, we both need me to pass this class, don’t we? So it’d probably be in your best interest to help me.” 

Isaac tries to unclench his jaw and wishes he could have stopped this whole thing. If he hadn’t gotten a F on his midterm, maybe he wouldn’t be in this situation. If Spender hadn’t taken pity on him and let him tutor someone to as extra credit, maybe he would be doing something else. If Maxwell Puckett, the town’s newest delinquent, hadn’t decided to match Isaac’s F on his test, maybe Isaac could already be at Izzy’s house, eating ice cream and bemoaning junior year. 

Instead, he was stuck at the library at seven o’clock on a Friday night, trying to help Maxwell Puckett study for his second history midterm. He sighs for the third time and pulls out Max’s test. “Mr. Spender said you practically failed the womans' rights portion of the test, so we should probably go over that. And instead of writing an essay on the stock market crash you just drew a picture of a car?” He examined the drawing with interest. It was good, Isaac could tell that much; four years of art class had left him with the ability to critique a sketch. 

Max shrugs broadly, replacing the frown with his sharp, deadly grin. “It’s a Ford Model T. They were the most influential car of the twentieth century, you know.” 

Isaac bites his lip and drops the paper. “Well, you need to know how to write an essay. You do know how to do that, don’t you?” 

Narrowing his eyes, Max says, “They do teach us city kids how to write an essay; we’re not that stupid.” His anger isn't strong, not as strong as his punches, but Isaac can still feel it settling down over them. He swallows. 

“I was just making sure,” Isaac protests. Max presses his lips together for a fraction of a second, then resumes chewing his gum disgustingly loudly. The girls still hidden behind the bookshelves murmur among themselves, and Isaac can tell they’re eyeing Max like he’s a piece of meat. That, or they’re trying to force him out of their library using nothing but their mind powers. Some girls, Isaac decides, might even be doing both.

Max pops his gum obnoxiously, rapping his fingers against the table. “Can you please not do that?” Isaac asks, flipping through his textbook. "It's- it's irritating."

Max’s hand stills. “Yeah, whatever.” He still his body for a second, too, than leans forward. “So what do you want me to study?” 

Isaac wordlessly shoves the book towards him and watches Max thumb the page markers. Brow creasing, he opens the book to the first marked page and starts reading. Isaac leans back and watches him for a minute longer, then starts on his math homework. 

Later that night, he curls up on a pile of blankets at Izzy’s and bemoans both junior year and Maxwell Puckett. “What have I done to deserve this?” he asks, staring at the ceiling. “What gods have I angered?”

Isabel pats his shoulder consolingly and says, “Well, you did fail the midterm. And no offense, but sometimes you do things gods would be angered by.” 

Isaac pouts at her. “Okay, first off, I hadn't slept at all the night before because of that ridiculously loud ghost, so that wasn't my fault. And second, name one thing.” 

“Do you want us to make a list?” Ed asks, poking his head out of kitchen. He’s got a carton of ice cream in his hands, and Isaac would seriously consider getting up to get some if it wasn’t so much work. “I mean, you’re basically friends with the seven deadly sins.” 

Isaac leans his head back to the ceiling. Pointing at Izzy, he tells her, “You’re Pride, obviously.” 

“Hey!” she yelps. “I’m much better than Pride.” 

“Only a prideful person would say that,” Isaac tells her. Strangely, being jokingly punched in the arm makes him feel better, even if it hurts. Isabel doesn’t know her own strength.

From the kitchen, Ed volunteers, “I’m Sloth.” One of people watching TV on Izzy’s couch nods wisely, focused on Spanish soap operas. It’s not clear whether they’re nodding at the drama onscreen or Ed’s comment; Isaac really doesn’t understand any of the people at Isabel’s. 

Isaac turns away from the television. “But who’re all the other ones?” he asks, cheek resting against the couch. He feels floaty tonight, like he feels whenever he comes to Isabel’s, and Maxwell Puckett is hardly on his mind. Well. Maybe Max has drifted through his thoughts once. Twice, at the maximum.

Isabel considers this. “Spender’s gluttony, obviously. All those books, he practically devours knowledge,” she says, and pulls Isaac up and into the kitchen. There, Isaac feels a little more comfortable. There are no strange people hanging about, and he can get ice cream. The tile is cold underneath his feet, chilling his toes to the bone, so he opens the fridge, grabs the goods, and curls up on a chair at the table as quickly as possible, blankets piled around him. 

Ed, sitting next to him, says, “I think Zarei’s lust.” He gives no further explanation for that, but Izzy hums. 

“I guess. If it counts when the lusting is for better medical supplies, I mean.” 

Izzy sits down at the table with them. Resting his head on the cool, smooth wood, Isaac slides the ice cream over to her, and she takes it without a word. Watching her shove Isaac’s spoon in her mouth isn’t the prettiest sight, but it’s familiar and comfortable and Isaac almost loves it. The silence between them, too, is warm and reassuring to Isaac, and he wraps himself up in the comforter, feeling content. 

\-----

Isaac checks his watch for the eighth time, the waffles in front of him untouched. His hair has gone spiky from running through it, and his papers are in a mess around him. Max, of course, the cause of his anguish, isn’t in sight. Suzy, behind the counter, is looking at him with pity, as if he's just been stood up on a date. He's fairly certain she's internally writing an article on his eternal loneliness.

The door bangs open, shuffling his papers even more. Isaac doesn’t look up till Max is seated at the table, smelling of smoke and cold winds and something metallic, like thunder. Then he lifts his head to meet Max’s eyes, jaw clenched. “Now, what sort of time do you call this?” he manages to get out. 

Max shrugs, rubbing his mouth. Johnny Jhonny bangs through the door, friends behind him, and walks over to slap Max’s hand. He returns it without looking, like it’s the easiest thing in the world to high-five a fire disguised as a human. Maxwell Puckett, Isaac thinks, knows no fear. “I had something to do.” 

“Busy?” Isaac challenges. He shoves the stacks of textbooks to Max, frowning. “You should be busy studying, because you’ve got the retake _tomorrow_. As in, in twelve hours. You need to be working.” 

Max stares at him. “Does it really matter that I was blowing off some steam? I wasn’t even that late.” 

“Yeah, okay, but you weren’t exactly early, either. And sue me for wanting you to pass when you got an F the last time you took this test!” Isaac tells him. His waffles are still lying in front of him, looking delicious, and Isaac mourns them. That’s the price he pays for an A in history. 

Max narrows his eyes. “If I recall, you didn’t exactly pass either. And besides, we’ve already gone over how the creation of movies affected America’s moral eight thousand times, so I’m not exactly sure how this session would _help much_.” 

Isaac presses his lips together, then gives up. “You know what? Fine. If you think this’ll be no help, then leave. Pick a fight with the journalism club, or whatever it is you do when you could be studying.” 

Licking his lips, Max stands, wordless. He hesitates, looking at the pile of textbooks, and shoves them in his bag as Isaac sits stone-faced, then takes his leave. Isaac doesn’t care, not in the slightest. He doesn’t care when Max’s posse follows him out of the diner, eyeing Isaac all the while, and he doesn’t care when Suzy, waitressing, drops his bill on the table and tells him, “Just for the record, you could not pay me to fight with Max Puckett.” He doesn’t even care when he finally takes a bite of his waffles and they, per course, taste horrible. 

As far as he’s concerned, all of this is fine. 

\-----

Watching Max take his test, Isaac decides, is too nerve-racking for him. At first he tried to peek through the tiny window in his class’s door, not caring if Mr. Spender saw him, but seeing Max carefully filling in the bubble sheet, brow knotted in concentration, was too much for him. He sinks against the wall next to Izzy, now, and groans, dropping his head in his hands. 

“Dude, why are we here?” she asks him now, bringing her knees up to her chin in contemplation. 

“Like, on this earth?” Ed asks. “‘Cause, I mean, I think that one’s a question for the philosophers, man. Why would Isaac know?” 

“You know what I mean,” she tells him, then turns back to Isaac. “Does it really matter this much?” 

“Look, Izzy, if I get a B in just one class my entire GPA will drop by at least .15 points and if that’s the reason I don’t make it into Harvard, I literally have no clue what I’m going to do,” he says, the words rushed and squished together. He exhales and hunches his shoulders a little smaller. 

“Hey,” says Izzy, poking/patting him on the shoulder. “Maybe you can stay for a year longer, to keep us company.” 

Isaac huffs a laugh, and the door swings open. Max, tall and proud, strides out, rummaging around in his pockets, and raises an eyebrow at Isaac. “I would’ve thought you’d have better things to do,” he tells him, smirking. 

Isaac uncurls himself and gives Max a dirty look. “I was just… waiting.” 

Max considers this for half a second, then accepts it. “Spender said he’d tell me what I got on the multiple choice part as soon as possible, which should be about… now,” he tells Isaac as Mr. Spender pokes his head out of classroom. 

“Max?” he asks. “I just went over your multiple choice answers, and, well- you didn't miss a single question so far! Good job." He nods, vaguely, and turns his mouth into something resembling a smile.

“There were fifty of those,” Isaac says, wide-eyed. “Fifty questions. And you got all of them right.” Max shrugs, unconcerned, as Isaac gapes at him. 

“It wasn’t that hard,” he mutters, pulling out a pack of cigarettes. Mr. Spender makes a warning noise in the back of his throat, and Max scowls. As Stephen and RJ round the corner, laughing, he shoves the box back into his pocket and turns to take his leave. Pausing, he says, “Mr. Spender? Thanks for the, uh, the second chance. And I hope my essay measures up.” With one last look at Isaac, he runs to catch up with his friends, laughter and spirits dripping through the hallways behind him. 

Isabel sighs, sounding markedly Isaac-like. “That boy will be trouble someday, I swear.” 

Spender makes a noise of agreement, then faces the group. “When I’m done with this, who wants to go ghost hunting?” 

Ed salutes him, his mouth flattening into something determined, and Isabel laughs. It is, Isaac thinks, the sort of comfort he loved, the sort even Max Puckett, resident lawless hooligan, couldn’t ruin.

**Author's Note:**

> okay so this is assuming that they're all spectrals but Max hasn't joined the club. Why? cause he is an enormous bag of dicks and also because he hasn't told anyone he can see ghosts, because he doesn't want to be know as the crazy dude. whatev.
> 
> (also, upon writing another part for this au, i made them all a year younger- max is a sophomore, albeit an old one, along with the jang and izzy and ed and suzy, and isaac is a junior. if you don't know what that means in american: max is in his second year and isaac is in his third, which is the most important.)


End file.
